


just keep your eyes on me

by tsunderestorm



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 13:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13614630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: The masquerade is full of people, but Ignis and Noctis only have time for each other.





	just keep your eyes on me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for IgNoct week 2018, day three for the simple prompt: Masquerade Ball.
> 
> My favorite part of working on this was imagining and writing about their different outfits. I went for an overall very dreamy feel for this and I hope it’s enjoyed!

“I never do good at these things,” Noctis whines as Ignis adjusts the mask snug against his his face, careful not to smudge the black wings of liner at the corners of his eyes or the porcelain-white powder he’s patted onto his face. His makeup is ghostly, _ethereal,_ Ignis thinks, perfect for his grim reaper-inspired ensemble for tonight’s costume gala. _“_ I can’t ever be myself, you know?”

Ignis tuts disapprovingly, pushing back a strand of hair Noctis has shaken into his face as his thumbs pat down the crimped edge of the mask, smoothing it over the bridge of Noctis’ nose even as he’s wrinkling it.

“You can be yourself tonight, sweetling,” Ignis reassures. “You can be whoever you want to be. That’s the beauty of the masquerade, wouldn’t you agree? I know I’m looking forward to seeing how you perform.”

Noctis shivers when Ignis thumbs over his lower lip, parting his pouting lips until he softly offers the digit a kiss. It’s a tiny touch so as not to smudge the black lipstick he’d expertly applied for him, but it holds a promise for later: when he doesn’t have to look his best, when his lipstick isn’t perfect it won’t just be Ignis’ thumb slipping between those plush lips. His reaction doesn’t escape Ignis’ notice in the slightest, even gives him a private surge of satisfaction that even when he is bitter and belligerent, he’s no less affected by a kind word and a tender touch.

Ignis has created this outfit special, tailored it perfectly to his prince’s body. The crowning piece, in his opinion, is the capelet: the softest of crushed black velvet lined in red, draped over a ruched-front dress shirt with gleaming black buttons in the shape of his customary skulls dotting it. There is chantilly lace at the hem of his capelet and the edges of his mask, delicately affixed by Ignis’ skilled hands, his pants are skin-tight and hugging his thighs handsomely, and his boots are brand-new and gleaming. He’s a vision, Ignis thinks: his grim little prince, even as he’s crossing the room to adopt his customary slouch on the couch.

He elaborates on his thoughts as he tuts disapprovingly at the wrinkles Noctis is undoubtedly creasing into his clothes:, “No one knows how you’ll be dressed. That’s the point of a masquerade.”

Noctis shoots him a look that tells him very distinctly he’s not buying his attempts. “What are you wearing?” he asks distractedly, nosily poking at the suit bag containing Ignis’ costume. He pinches the crimped plastic experimentally, threatening to peel open the bag and look inside as he watches Ignis for a reaction.

“Now now, mustn’t ruin the surprise,” Ignis says as he crosses the room swiftly, taking Noctis’ hands in his and kissing his palms one after the other, delighting in the way his expression moves from shocked to dreamy in a matter of seconds. “You have my word, Noct, that you’ll know it’s me. I’ll find you as I always do.”

—

The gala is overwhelming at first, an onslaught, as assault to Noctis’ senses, so overwhelming it leaves him dizzy. There is no face devoid of a mask, no one he recognizes - therefore, he reasons, Ignis was right and there is no one who recognizes him. Still, even despite no one knowing his identity (or maybe only, he guesses, _because_ they don't know his identity) he finds himself pulled into dance after dance. Flitting from partner to partner, a frantic butterfly with barely-unfurled wings, he tries to relax and let himself enjoy the gala until the colors and textures of their costumes blend together into a blur. Hazy and unfocused, it’s almost like a dream the way he drifts through the movements and he’s glad for it, glad to let his mind go blank and not focus on what people might think or how he should act or _anything_ but the rustle of costume fabric as his dance partners move and the way his body feels weightless.

Suddenly, _finally_ , the arm that slides around his waist is a familiar one, a touch that feels distinctly like coming home and the eyes he meets when he looks up are a piercing green. Now his head is spinning for a reason that has nothing to do with the circles he’s been waltzed in and has everything to do with the fact that now it’s _Ignis’_ body he’s pressed up against, Ignis’ hand cradling his as the other settles into position at the small of his back.

Ignis looks really good, Noctis thinks, and _really good_ doesn’t even cut it. He looks _amazing_. He’d be the first to admit that he has no mind for fabrics or colors or what looks good together beyond wondering if his shades of black match, but he can tell Ignis has really outdone himself with this look. He has a brilliant red shirt with a dramatic ruffled front like Noctis’ with a line of gleaming black and golden buttons. His pants re perfectly tailored and they hug his legs gorgeously and Noctis stares, transfixed by the sight of Ignis’ effortless elegance as always. Even the soles of his shoes are red to match his outfit, carefully chosen from his closet of designer dress shoes . The mask, though, is what’s truly incredible: it looks soft, shiny red with feathers at the corners, glimmering with fine gold powder dusted over them when he tilts his head. There’s a long, thin piece of his mask over his nose, like an elongated bird beak in a burnished black metallic color and it makes him look beautiful. There’s a thrill there somewhere, the danger. He could hurt him if he wanted to, even if Noctis knows he won’t.

“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” Ignis asks, lacing his fingers with Noctis’, slowly begins the steps to the first waltz he’d taught him years ago in time with the music. “No one knows who here is the prince.”

  
artwork by the lovely and talented Alma; available on: [tumblr](http://envyhime.tumblr.com/post/170672904238/this-will-be-my-only-contribution-to-ignoct-week) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/mttbrandhime/status/961829953191882752)

Noctis moves along to the music easily, falling into step with Ignis’ movements, following him as he knows. Ignis leans in as they turn, breath warm against Noct’s ear and whispers, “Just as no one knows who _I_ am, therefore there’s nothing improper happening here.”

Noctis sucks in a breath, feeling his heart flutter into his throat above the black-diamond choker Ignis has fastened there. His face feels hot and itchy beneath his mask, flushed as red as Ignis’ outfit as he forces himself not to look around, not to look into the crowd of people whose eyes he swears he can _feel_ on him. “Ignis, _shh_!” he hisses.

“I’m simply a face in a crowd,” Ignis continues as his palm moves, cupping Noctis’ back gently. “A man behind a mask, dancing with the light of my life.”

Noctis pinches his fingers into the nape of Ignis’ neck where it’s resting, “Stop, you’re embarrassing me!”

Ignis chuckles, low and elegant and more self-satisfied than Noctis’ embarrassment can handle. “How can you be embarrassed when no one knows it's you?” he asks, and Noctis thinks dammit, he’s _right_ , but _still_?

None of the other dances have felt this long, Noctis thinks. He swears the orchestra has been playing the same waltz unending for _hours_ , minutes on top of minutes that he’s spent moving around the dance floor with Ignis and even though Ignis is...well, _Ignis,_ and he’s saying all of those things that are just too much, he actually wouldn’t mind if they never stop.

“Masquerades are romantic,” Ignis says, like he’s speaking from somewhere far away. “Even...erotic, some say. What do you think, Noct?”

Noctis thinks he’s right, but still it’s too much. Every place their bodies are touching feels over-sensitive and there’s a magic more electric than lightning and burning hotter than fire between their clasped fingers. Suddenly all he can think about is Ignis’ thumb on his lower lip earlier, the way he’d looked at him before the party, the way he knows his lover can make him feel, _would be_ making him feel if they were alone in his room and not in front of hundreds of guests at a gala.

“I think I was right, and this masquerade was a stupid idea.” Noctis says petulantly, lying. “I think I shouldn’t have come and I think you only wanted me to come so _you_ could come.”

“Tonight we are just two dancers,” Ignis says, ignoring his protests as his fingers stroked slowly over his back, gentle of the webbing of scars he knows sits below his shirt. Noctis can feel his gaze just like fingers on his skin, undressing him with his eyes. Shameless, now that no one can say anything and _gods_ , that feels like a rebellion and he kind of _likes_ this new side of Ignis, this cocky, dramatic side.

“I have to give you up soon, dear heart, but I’ll find you later,” Ignis says when there’s a lull in the music, when the pattern of steps indicates a turn and it’s easy to lean down and whisper again in his ear. “We can strip these disguises off.”

The music stops, and they do too. Everything comes rushing back in a way that almost makes Noct dizzy. “Just...two dancers…” he repeats Ignis’ words as he re-orients himself to the ballroom, distinguishes the floor from the ceiling before he starts taking stock of the costumed people all around them.

“There is only you, my little prince of death,” Ignis says, taking Noct’s hand and bringing it to his lips as he steps back to a respectable distance. “And me, your adoring courtier.”

Noctis feels drunk on it - the pageantry, the elegance, the feel of Ignis’ lips against his bare skin, the way his green eyes are bright from behind the oxblood red of his mask. Gently, against his hand, Ignis murmurs “you’re doing so well,” presses “I’m proud of you” into his skin, a kissed word for each space between his fingers and then he’s gone, vanished into the crowd of people leaving Noctis reeling.

Noctis is whirled into the next dance with a new partner, unmistakably Gladio in size and presence, strong and solid as he’s pulled against him. His elaborate costume dominates Noctis’ vision, eyes darting from the feathers lining the impressive epaulets of his jacket to the shining black buttons bordered in gold in a perfect line down the front. His beard is trimmed neater than Noctis knows he prefers it, hair slicked back and mask snug against his face, burnished metal like Ignis’, but with lines etched into it that remind him of the feathers on the fatigues they’d recently been fitted for. He looks handsome, too, dressed like the hawk whose wings are inked into his arms: a bird at tonight’s masquerade to match Ignis. There’s something to be said about that, Noctis thinks, something that feels _safe_ and _sure_ and the thought settles warmly into the back of his mind as Gladio guides him into the beginning of another waltz.

“Ignis lives for this kind of thing, huh?” Gladio asks with a laugh, looking out across the crowd, over the tops of everyone’s heads he’s taller than. Noctis wonders if he’s looking for Ignis, wonders if his Shield is as entranced with Ignis as he is himself. “He’s really in his element with all this over-dramatic stuff.”

Noctis’ head feels heavy, fuzzy, like it’s coated in cotton as soft as the sheets he’s already imagining Ignis laying him down in later. Gladio’s eyes are as warm as ever, comforting and dark, but he can’t hold their gaze - instead he finds himself scanning the room for a red mask, wondering where Ignis has vanished to. Wondering who he’s dancing with, if he’s touching _their_ back the way he’d rubbed his fingers along Noctis’, leaving tiny sparks of electricity in their wake. He has a feeling his retainer is closer than he thinks, over his shoulder or off somewhere just behind, watching him in Gladio’s strong arms and critiquing his dance steps and the thought makes his skin flush under Gladio’s hands.

“I know,” Gladio teases as he leans down so Noctis can hear him, lips right against his ear and he can feel the scratch of his stubble, the warm tickle of his breath as he says “You’ve got no time for your Shield right now, do you?”

Noctis gives Gladio a look that he hopes conveys his apology as he moves on from him to Prompto, recognizable in a crowd of Lucian black in a bright yellow chocobo-inspired costume. His mask has a beak over his nose, covered in a soft-looking fabric in soft, warm orange to complement the glaring yellow of the feathers dotting the edges. He’s wearing a black dress shirt under a yellow jacket, his pants black with yellow pinstripes and Noctis has to laugh at the sight of him.

“You look ridiculous!” he teases as Prompto bows to him in a playful mockery of ancient custom, twirling his hand over-dramatically as he wobbles on his feet, ever clumsy. “Yellow, seriously? You stick out like a sore thumb!”

Prompto squawks in mock offense, clutching one feather-covered hand to his chest like he’s heartbroken. “Hey, buddy! What, you don’t like my costume?” he asks as he raises his hand to clasp Noctis’, face splitting into a toothy smile as Noctis slots into position for their dance. “I mean...kweh…?”

Noctis chokes on his laugh as Prompto spins him around, hand settling in hesitantly on his back the way Ignis has taught him, he’s sure. He’s babbling on as they dance, barely audible over the orchestra but Noctis doesn’t need to hear his words to _feel_ them, to be comforted by them: the warmth and weight they carry, even his most absurd jokes heartfelt and sincere. Prompto’s steps are too fast and unpracticed, nothing like Gladio with his blue-blood upbringing and Ignis with his easy elegance but Noctis loves their dance, loves the way Prompto’s eyes light up when he smiles at him as they waltz. He makes a mental note to congratulate him later, hopes Ignis commends him on well he did.

He’s taken from Prompto seemingly as fast as he’s put with him, settling into Nyx Ulric’s arms instead amid a soft drawl of “Well well, Your Highness _._ ” Nyx’s wolf mask looks so soft, dreamy and cloudy-grey covering nearly his whole face, his Kingsglaive uniform traded for a soft fur coat that Noctis can’t help himself from touching. Seeing the grin split across Nyx’s handsome mouth, Noctis runs his fingers along the collar, trailing over the fabric and Nyx’s braids alike before he positions his hand at the glaive’s shoulder as decorum dictates.

“The King really knows how to throw a party, huh?” Nyx asks as his hand clasps Noctis’ tightly, palm dry and fingers calloused from the rough hilt of his kukris. “Your dad a great guy, you know. Letting everyone come, even us glaives.”

Noctis likes hearing that, likes the heartfelt praise Nyx always has for his dad, the glaive’s easy smile as Noctis lets himself drift again, content in Nyx’s familiar hands. He’s a surprisingly good dancer, maybe ever better than him, and he can imagine Ignis chiding him for that later, can imagine the “ _honestly_ , Noct…” and it makes him laugh, makes him wonder again where Ignis is.

When the orchestra winds down Nyx releases him with a cheeky wink, Noctis is left alone in a sea of people, partners lining up with new partners and admiring each other’s costumes. He feels lost, feels everything rushing back and he makes for the edges of the room, for the wide-open doors onto the balcony or leading to the hallway, he isn’t sure which with how turned around he is.

“You seem tired, dear heart,” Ignis whispers in his ear when Noctis finally escapes the thronging crowd of courtiers. He has no idea where he appeared from, moving as swiftly and elegantly as an assassin but he knows the purr of his voice, the soft warmth of his breath, is a welcome anchor to reality from the dreaminess he’s felt at the gala all night.

“It’s late, sweetling. Let’s take you to bed.”

\--

“Such a pretty little angel of death,” Ignis coos, cupping Noct’s cheeks in his hands. His thumbs are on his chin, gliding over his bottom lip as his fingers are slipping up and under the edges of the mask to feel his smooth cheeks. They are in his room, safe from the curious eyes that make him feel more nude in a modest costume and a mask than he has in his t-shirt and underwear on the balcony of his apartment for gods-knows-who to see. “You are exquisite, Noct.”

He pulls his hands back, letting the mask rest again on Noct’s cheeks and he can feel the lace acutely on his flushed, over-sensitive skin. “You looked really good too, you know. Like you really liked this type of thing.”

“The beauty of a masquerade, my love, is hiding your face. But the beauty of the aftermath is me getting to see the expressions on yours as I divest you of that disguise, when I get to see the parts of yourself that are only for me,” Ignis continues as he kneels to untie Noctis’ shoes, to gently grip the backs of his calves to lift his feet out of them and set them aside. Noctis feels strange - heavy in his grip, light at the same time, a feeling that is just as dizzying as the gala had been but much more pleasant. Warmer, almost, and he remembers the way Ignis’ soft, pretty lips had let slip the word _erotic_ when they’d danced and it makes him shudder.

“I still think masquerades are dumb,” he pouts, frustrated as always that Ignis has this much of an effect on him. He’s taken his mask off and there’s nothing between him and those captivating eyes, the gaze he feels completely and entirely naked under.

“I think you found it a bit exhilarating, honestly,” Ignis says, rising to his feet and nuzzling into Noctis’ neck, kissing along the line of his choker as his fingers brushed the nape of his neck, unfastening it and pulling it away. “Didn’t it make you feel a bit liberated? In my arms, with everyone watching, when all you wanted was for me to lay you bare?”

Noctis’ pout becomes a languid smile that he hides well, laughing softly as he tilts his head back to give Ignis better access to his neck. “Quit it, Iggy...I tried not to think about that all night!”

Ignis slides his hands down Noctis’ sides and settles them on his wide hips, long fingers curled into the belt loops of his pants. “Honestly, love. _Did_ you enjoy yourself? You did so well. Not a peep of protest or a complaint on your royal duties to be heard all night.”

Noctis beams under the attention, face heating once more beneath the lace skull mask he still hasn’t removed yet as Ignis’ touch stokes the fire inside of him only he can light.

“You know, Ig? I did, I guess, yeah. That gala...masquerade...thing. It was fun, but it made me feel...I don’t know. Kind of uneasy? I guess it’s weird because you liked it so much but. I don’t know.” Noctis nods slowly as he answers, choosing his words carefully as he leans into Ignis’ touch with his arms slung around his neck. “But it was better when you were there. You liked it, right? That wasn’t just pretending?”

“I do enjoy the pageantry, but I admit I do find it more difficult to read intent when there’s little to be seen of expressions, and body language is more difficult to read when there are several layers of costuming.” Ignis answers. “I believe that Gladiolus and I were both loathe to let you out of arm’s reach. It’s true I did enjoy myself tonight, but I’m pleased to be back in your rooms alone with you.”

“And,” he offers, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Noctis’ brow. “I’m glad that I was able to provide some comfort.”

Noctis averts his eyes, staring at the ground, his sock-clothed feet, the soft cushion of the rug beneath them. “I don’t feel as stupid when you’re there. It was overwhelming...at least, until I was dancing with you. I mean...you _know_ me. You know just how to dance so I don’t trip, you know how to touch me just right so my back doesn’t hurt…”

Ignis smiles, smoothing a strand of hair back from his prince’s face. “Darling, you don’t know how good it feels to hear you say that. All I need to know is that you are safe and happy, even if it means ensuring my toes being stomped on.”

Noctis jerks away and pouts, insulted far less than he pretends to be but content to keep up the charade to tease Ignis. He knows he isn’t the greatest dancer, knows that even the hours of waltzing instruction Ignis had subjected him to aren’t enough to make him less clumsy or even to make him _care_ more about stuffy old dances they did decades ago. Most days, anyway, he spent the lessons cheek-to-chest with his advisor, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart rather than the music playing from the speakers. That’s the way he likes it best: soft and safe, half-asleep in Ignis’ arms.

“Come now, I meant what I said! I Allow me my joke, love,” Ignis reasons, tugging Noct back with a hand grasped around his wrist. “I want you in my arms. Things make sense when you’re there.”

Noctis shudders when Ignis’ fingers touch bare skin, when they brush the collar of his dress shirt to untie the capelet, when his fingers nimbly slide the buttons through their eyelets until his shirt is hanging apart and his chest is bared. The way Ignis is staring at him makes him flush all the way down to his nipples before he can help himself, turning away and looking at the ground again as he brings his hands up to tug his mask off and toss it aside.

“I want you pressed against me, I want your hands in mine, I want your lips on mine,” Ignis says, kissing Noctis’ now-bared brow, the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose.

Noctis hushes Ignis with a finger pressed against his lips. “You’re so over-dramatic, Specs,” he sighs, even as Ignis is pulling him down into bed, soft and slow.

“So,” he asks, reaching a hand up to brush Ignis’ hair back from his face from where it falls out of its perfect coif. “What _were_ you, anyway?”

Ignis turns to kiss his fingertips as Noctis trails them down his jaw. “My costume? An ibis, love. There’s an old story, short as it may be, using a red ibis as a symbol for death. Given your grim reaper costume, I felt it appropriate...a suitable match to you.”

“You’re a ‘suitable match’ no matter what you’re wearing,” Noctis huffs as he glides his fingers through Ignis’ hair, pulling it utterly out of what was left of its style. “You’re my _boyfriend_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am [tsunderestorm](twitter.com/tsunderestorm) on twitter if you'd like to chat!


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